Blood rushed to his head when he saw the Google search: “Trent Parks, police, Marysville.”
His temples pounding, Ken sleepwalked to his desk in the rec room. He opened the bottom drawer with his right hand while the left one fumbled with his fly.
“To Serve and Protect,” Chapter 2
by c.w. cobblestone
Ken squirmed on the couch watching the door all night, bursting with questions but fearing the answers.
Where was Rachel? Was she leaving him? How long had she known about his crossdressing? Could she possibly see him as anything other than a wimp after he’d stood by and let that creep maul her?
Even before the attack, Rachel’s disdain for her husband had been growing, and she’d taken to calling him a lazy “candy-ass” with a “Fantasyland” worldview — her late father’s favorite put-downs. Was Rachel becoming a reactionary like the single Army colonel who’d raised her? Was her eye starting to wander? Why had she Googled that cop? After the assault, she’d cried on HIS shoulder — why hadn’t she turned to Ken in her moment of need?
The diminutive trust-fund husband fidgeted in the darkness, his manhood circling the drain. He’d exposed himself as a coward and watched his wife make goo-goo eyes at the macho officer who’d saved her. She’d known about the crossdressing for some time. The thought that Rachel had discovered his kink made him queasy. Recalling how she’d flirted with the tall, square-jawed flatfoot churned his insides even worse.
Ken finally fell asleep feeling completely washed out.
Noon came and went the next day with still no sign of Rachel. Since it was a Saturday, Ken knew she wouldn’t be going to work, and figured she’d probably rented a hotel room, like she’d done after previous arguments.
This time was different, though. This time, he knew that she knew who he really was. The thought terrified and depressed him.
Ken had other thoughts. Naughty thoughts. Sissy thoughts. He tried to push them aside. They kept coming.
With his blood running hot, he slithered to the rec room and opened his desk drawer. After wiggling out of his sweatpants, he stepped into Rachel’s red panties — and then the front door slammed shut. In a panic, Ken tossed the underwear back in the drawer and scrambled to pull up his sweats before hurrying to the front room.
“Hi, honey,” he said, breathing heavily with his cheeks and ears burning scarlet.
“What were you doing in there?” Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “Were you wearing my panties just now?”
He hung his head. She scowled harder.
“Were you? Answer me.”
Ken gulped. “I … I …”
“You were! You little …”
“Rach. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry.” Rachel sniffed. “You got that one right.”
“Come on, hon. Don’t be that way.”
“Whatever, Ken, I’m exhausted. I don’t want to talk right now.” She breezed past him toward the bedroom, where she plopped onto the mattress without undressing.
While she slept, Ken whipped up a huge meal, working silently so he wouldn’t disturb her. He wondered why she was so exhausted. Had she been up all night? Where? With whom?
More questions he didn’t want answered.
By the time Rachel stirred, the table was set and late lunch was served. She sighed at the spread.
“Ken, we need to talk.”
He grimaced. “What’s wrong, honey? Aren’t you hungry?”
“Not now. Sit down.”
Ken wrung his hands. “What …?”
“It’s everything, Ken. You won’t work. All you do is play video games. And …”
“And what?”
“Your … thing.”
“Wearing … your … your panties?”
“Yes, Ken. I’m sorry, but it creeps me out.”
“But … why? Don’t tell me you’re transphobic now, too. Are you?”
“No, jeez, Ken, I’m not transphobic. It’s just …”
“Just what?”
“Well, the idea of my own husband being a crossdresser doesn’t do it for me. You know I’m not transphobic — I was good friends with Darla in drama class, remember? I don’t care what other people do in their bedroom. But you? You’re my husband.”
“And I love you.”
“I love you, too, Ken. I really do. But things need to change.”
Ken shrugged. “What? Tell me what and I’ll change.”
“First of all, you need to find a job. Seriously, I’m not playing this time. I don’t care what kind of work you get — just do something.”
“Um … okay?”
“And…” Rachel crinkled her nose. “Look, Ken, you can dress up however you want when you’re alone — but you need to get your own panties from now on, and stop stretching mine out. And don’t expect me to do any of that stuff with you.”
“But … why? What’s so terrible about it?”
“I didn’t say it was terrible. It’s just not for me. Sorry, but the idea of my husband prancing around in girl’s clothes is a major turnoff. I don’t care what others do, but I like men. Women don’t turn me on, and neither do men in girls’ clothes.”
“I … I’m sorry, Rachel.”
“I’m sorry, too. Have you been doing this all along?”
“Um, ever since I was a kid. When I was little, Sandra used to dress me up in her clothes and, like, be mean to me and make fun of me.”
Rachel cocked her head. “Your sister started you on this?”
“I guess so..”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Ken shrugged. “I dunno. Look how you’re reacting now — if I’d have told you early on, how would you have taken it? You probably wouldn’t have married me.”
Rachel nodded. “Yeah, probably not. No offense, Ken, but that’s not my thing at all. I love you, but I can’t lie. It just … well, it creeps me out, thinking about you running around behind my back wearing my panties. You never told me about any of this.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” Ken blinked. “It’s okay, Rach. I won’t ask you … you know, to do anything.”
“Okay. And you’ll look for a job?”
“I promise. First thing Monday.”
Rachel filled her plate. Ken smiled while she ate.
After dinner, she told her husband she was going outside to get some air. As he cleared the table, her voice drifted in from the open kitchen window.
“Hello, yes, could you tell me if Officer Parks is working tonight?” There was a pause. “He is? Great. Can I please leave him a message? Yes, thank you. Please … yes, tell him to please call Rachel Coolidge at 429 820-3251. I was the victim in … uh, the case on Darvin Street; the guy with the knife. Okay? Great, thanks.”
Ken’s stomach felt squishy. Bile flooded his gills. He dashed to the bathroom and puked in the toilet.
“To Serve and Protect,” Chapter 3
by c.w. cobblestone
When two uniformed police officers strolled into the Foxtrot Coffee House laughing, Ken wiped his hands on his apron and seethed.
The taller of the two cops stepped up to the counter. “A couple large coffees to go, please, one black, one double-double. And I guess I’ll take one of those strawberry scones over there on the end.”
“Throw in a bran muffin, too, would ya?” With a grin, the second officer patted his considerable belly. “I’m trying to eat healthy.”
“Well, I’ve got news for you, Officer Zachary.” Ken sneered at the cop’s nameplate. “You won’t be eating anything here. We don’t serve your kind.”
“I’m sorry — what?” The stout cop frowned.
“You heard me. You’ll have to take your business elsewhere.” Ken popped his lips. “Nazi cops aren’t welcome here.”
A thick accent boomed from the kitchen: “Oh! Nazi? Why you say? No!”
Ken flinched. He hadn’t realized Pradeep the owner was within earshot.
The potbellied cop faced the boss. “Your employee here says you don’t serve police officers.”
“No, no, is no true. No true. Police love here. All time. Free coffee.” Pradeep pointed at Ken. “You! Fire. I pay you to end of day. Go! Get out. You fire.”
“I’m … fired?” Ken stood on his tiptoes.
“Yes, fire. You work here three month … all you do complain every time. You fire. Now get out.”
Ken whipped off his apron and threw it in Pradeep’s face. “You can’t fire me — I fucking quit. Who wants to work for a place that supports white supremacist cops anyway?”
“I from India, you stupid-ass. No white suprema. Now — get out.”
Ken folded his arms. “Make me get out.”
The pudgy officer stepped forward. “Listen, sir, I suggest you leave now, unless you want me to write you a disorderly conduct ticket.”
In a fit of rage, Ken shoved the cop — and got coldcocked. The officer squeezed the cuffs on the belligerent barista and wrenched him to his feet.
“Police brutality! Police brutality!” Ken bellowed as the officers led him out of the coffee shop. “I’m suing! Everybody saw it!”
The corpulent cop tossed Ken into the rear of the squad car and rode jump while his partner drove to the police station, ignoring the prisoner’s constant stream of profanity from the backseat. After being booked on charges of assaulting a police officer and disorderly conduct, Ken was allowed his one phone call from the precinct front desk.
Rachel picked up on the third ring. “Hey, babe. This is a nice surprise.”
“Uh, hey.”
“Who is this? Ken?”
“Yeah. Who did you think it was?”
“Um … I don’t know.”
Ken frowned. “What came up on caller ID?”
Rachel cleared her throat. “Um … Marysville Police Precinct 12. But it sounded like you, so … uh … I … I wasn’t sure who it was.”
Ken thought that was strange but didn’t have time to contemplate it. He cleared his throat. “Um … honey … listen … um …”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Well, you’re gonna laugh.”
“Ken … what’s going on?”
“I’m … I’m in jail.”
“You what?”
“Uh …” Ken licked his lips. “A couple of fascist cops came into the shop and started insulting me, and I told them we didn’t put up with hate speech. But then, Pradeep overheard us, and of course, the rightwing sonofabitch takes the cops’ side. So, not only do I get fired, but they lie on me and say I assaulted one of them.”
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